


Don't Let the Sun Go Down On Me

by Alex_Rogers_Stark



Series: My Baby Takes the Morning Train [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Iron Man (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Adorable, Adorable Tony Stark, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Office, Awkward Steve, Awkward Steve Rogers, Bakery and Coffee Shop, Coffee, Coffee Shops, Crush at First Sight, Flirting, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Fluffy, Italian Tony Stark, Light Angst, Love at First Sight, M/M, Mostly Fluff, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Slash, Pre-Steve Rogers/Tony Stark, Protective Steve Rogers, Short & Sweet, Short One Shot, Steve Adores Tony, Steve Rogers Feels, Sweet, Sweet Steve, Sweet Steve Rogers, Sweet Tony, Sweet Tony Stark, Tony Adores Steve Right Back, War Veteran Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-23
Updated: 2020-04-23
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:42:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23808583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alex_Rogers_Stark/pseuds/Alex_Rogers_Stark
Summary: “I prefer the blueberry ones, myself,” a gentle hum meandered from behind him.Steve’s heart gave a screeching putter, his head whipping up before he could so much as put his thoughts into actions. Mr. Stark’s curled, wild hair was shimmering with raindrops that never got to reach the grounds of the New York streets. The collar of his black and grey paneled duffle coat was pulled up along with his shoulders as he tensed in on himself, and Steve almost couldn’t make out those deep brown eyes over all of that. Despite the tremors zipping through his crossed arms, Mr. Stark’s delicate features wrinkled in a syrupy smile. His irises twinkled with the yellows, reds, and greens of the streetlights, headlights, and traffic lights that reflected within puddles pooling in the cracks and twists of the asphalt around them.Another moment, Steve thought to himself, sucking in a half-breath.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Series: My Baby Takes the Morning Train [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1711444
Comments: 28
Kudos: 194





	Don't Let the Sun Go Down On Me

Dark clouds crowded the New York skyline, bouncing and fumbling around one another worse than the throngs of people on the brimming sidewalks. There was inevitability in the air, and sure enough, the slow pattering of water droplets on the umbrella above Steve proved the weatherman on ABC 7 right. A terse battle waged between the rain marking its steady march towards a full-blown storm and the echoing sounds of loud-mouthed New Yorkers with their background symphony of blaring horns.

Rain had been a scarce novelty in the backlogs of the Afghani desert, and it had been one of those things Steve had missed most about home. But the calming static kept being punctured by random bursts of sharp noise that translated into something all-too familiar and recent in his memories. Each piercing screech resonated through his ear canals, setting Steve more and more on edge as it began to fill his head with a frayed and worn fuzz that numbed everything in its war path.

Running his hands through his hair, he pressed the blunt ends of his fingertips into his scalp. The feeling was a muted ghost of the scraping nails he’d now bitten to buds. Still, the psychosomatic tick was better than nothing at all.

A dampened sigh trickled from Steve’s lips, and he began bouncing his leg beneath the table in the mockery of action. He made another vain attempt to train his focus back on his sketchpad and onto the blank page leering up at him with its white glare. The same series of images that had been taunting him for the past six months – a flipbook of mental photographs – scrolled through his head, and Steve wiped a sweaty palm over his face, feeling more exhausted than before he’d gone to bed.

Shined amber, a smear in the fog of his mind, flashed behind Steve’s eyes. Like a balm, instantaneous and cool against seething burns, his muscles sank back into gravity. The traffic faded towards that melodic hum he’d known long before the sounds of gunshots and explosions conquered his every memory, the chirp of passersby on every upward note, and it all began to dim behind a curtain of rain.

Steve swiped back the stringy hair falling into his eyes; he needed a haircut. Pinning the note to the back of his mind, he swooped his pen towards the paper in clear threat.

It wouldn’t be the first, and it definitely wouldn’t be the last, he thought, a burst of tempered guilt sweeping through him. Bucky was right. Steve was gone on the guy. And after a single conversation, too.

His mom always had said he was a hopeless romantic.

When the sweet, blond waitress came back to him with his food and a coffee in hand, he was grateful for her timing.

He’d seen Tony Stark a total of five times and spoke to him an exact amount of zero over the course of the past six months. Steve couldn’t help being disappointed despite the numerous times he’d been told seeing Mr. Stark more than once a year was a rarity in and of itself.

Within their first six months at Stark Industries, Steve liked to think he and Bucky had settled into their environment quite well. The quick upward movement S.I. offered meant they had both been given numerous diminutive promotions and gone their separate ways. They’d started at the bottom-most rung, and a few months later, Steve found himself settling into the role of Creative Technologist, Doodler.

It was his favorite position as of yet. He was a part of the team that helped design the logos and packaging for every new Stark product coming off the line. And because it seemed Tony Stark was a chronic workaholic with a mind that moved in time with the speed of light, Steve was jumping from one project to another in rapid succession. The things Mr. Stark could think of, create, and churn out were as much awe-inspiring as they were humbling.

Steve got to bear witness to some of the most astounding pieces of technology he’d ever seen in his life hot off the press. Most of the pieces he was assigned to came from the laboratories and warehouses located on the lower levels of Stark Tower, but when a metallic prosthetic for an arm found its way to his desk, he had to wonder.

As he’d run his fingers over the soft, smoothed surface, Steve couldn’t fight the feeling that this one… this one came right from Tony Stark himself. A blooming warmth sprouted from his stomach, and he’d sat down and spent the next couple hours poring over the gift in front of him.

All other times, Steve consulted with Doctor Banner.

Bruce Banner was a quiet man, and their first few interactions left Steve with the impression of a hard-pressed man who wasn’t in the habit of making co-workers into friends. He’d been reserved, and the people he worked with were adamant in painting him in a no-nonsense light when Steve had first asked about him. None of the other S.I. scientists seemed to have any desire to be in the same lab as the man, much less give him the benefit of conversation.

There was an odd wariness that surrounded the air Doctor Banner breathed, and Steve could never figure out why.

At the time, there hadn’t been much Steve could gather about the prosthetic on his own, though the second he set it in front of Doctor Banner for an analysis, the man’s eyes lit up. He didn’t hold back in his admiration and astonishment as he and Steve gushed over Mr. Stark’s newest design.

Steve suspected he was more obvious than he’d first thought if one conversation with Bruce Banner had the man rolling his eyes and muttering about hopeless admirers under his breath. When Steve invited Bruce to join him and Bucky for lunch, he’d regretted it almost as soon as they’d sat down. Bucky had taken one look at the project before bursting into fits of laughter and informing their newest companion of what he liked to call, “Steve’s little obsession.”

Bruce had only rolled his eyes and gave Steve a sympathetic look that had him feeling hot all over. He was in way over his head, and Steve knew a hopeless situation when he saw one. There was a very big difference, though, between understanding something and accepting it.

His five sightings had taken Bruce by surprise. According to him, between Mr. Stark’s California branch and this one, and Mr. Stark’s growing negotiations with other countries and businesses, Bruce and many other employees had a running joke that they’d never seen Tony Stark stand still, much less stay in one place for more than a couple of days.

There was no digging the idea out of his mind after that.

Steve was enraptured with the sudden need to capture Tony Stark in a moment. Every sighting became twice as monumental than they had been before. A fleeting breath of earthen locks and tanned skin outside Steve’s office window, a lithe body walking up a flight of stairs, a sloppy smile in S.I.’s café as Mr. Stark carried a bagel between impish sharp teeth and a cup of coffee held aloft in one hand while the other was busy in a wild dance on the keypad of his phone.

Every crossed path left Steve haunted and aching for one more.

Steve’s hands began to drift a gentle current away from guns and grenades and medical bills and insurmountable debt, and toward pencils, paints, and pastels. His fingers started to itch, again, in an incurable way.

There’d always been a noose of weight around his neck, and he couldn’t yet call the days where he’d felt like he’d been being choked – the air stealing from his lungs – long gone. But every day that he could wake up and pay his rent with a surplus of money left over for food and other necessities, his breaths came in that much easier.

For an enduring amount of time, Steve hadn’t been sure he’d make it through whatever illness would plague him next. At first, he’d copy down the comics from the papers and the pictures around the house he liked best to pass the days confined to his bed away. Little things here, smaller things there to keep his mind preoccupied, which, in turn, meant he got a great deal of practice as days turned into weeks turned into months.

Didn’t hurt that a stack of blank paper, a few mechanical pencils, and a couple of erasers weren’t the most expensive pastimes on the block.

When the days came where painful, prodding fingers and chilled instruments left hollows in his skin, Steve became a little less interested in a schoolboy’s fantasy. The nights he could hear his mother’s soft crying from the kitchen as death sentence after death sentence built up on the doctors’ lips had knocked a few more of those pegs off that playground block until they dwindled like dying embers.

Everything came to a startling halt the days his mom stopped coming home in the evenings, working herself into an oblivion that killed her, all because he ended up costing her more than her life.

Drawing stopped being a crutch for him after that.

Sure, he’d etched out a doodle here or a sketch there in a waiting room, while studying ranks and general orders, or during briefings, but it was no more than that. A simple exercise to preoccupy the mind.

Tony Stark – in the breadth of a second – sparked a raging wildfire in his nervous system, igniting the wicks in a burst of yellowed firelight. It was like color had saturated back into his monochrome life, and Steve was, for the first time since he could be bothered to remember, content.

And if whatever bits he gleaned from the morning news or his co-worker’s lips were at all correct in their musings, it seemed Mr. Stark was more than happy to, for once, stay exactly where he was for the time being.

Biting into the cherry peach tart, Steve lurched forward as a molasses spill of custard and honey dribbled down his chin.

“I prefer the blueberry ones, myself,” a gentle hum meandered from behind him.

Steve’s heart gave a screeching putter, his head whipping up before he could so much as put his thoughts into actions. Mr. Stark’s curled, wild hair was shimmering with raindrops that never got to reach the grounds of the New York streets. The collar of his black and grey paneled duffle coat was pulled up along with his shoulders as he tensed in on himself, and Steve almost couldn’t make out those deep brown eyes over all of that. Despite the tremors zipping through his crossed arms, Mr. Stark’s delicate features wrinkled in a syrupy smile. His irises twinkled with the yellows, reds, and greens of the streetlights, headlights, and traffic lights that reflected within puddles pooling in the cracks and twists of the asphalt around them.

 _Another moment,_ Steve thought to himself, sucking in a half-breath.

The corners of Mr. Stark’s eyes crinkled a fraction more, and Steve realized he’d been staring. Opening his mouth to say something, he muted himself in an instant as Mr. Stark ducked beneath the umbrella and came around the table to sit. He shrugged off his oversized coat, settling it on the back of the black rattan chair across from Steve. Pulling it out, he took a seat, his coat trailing behind him as he scooted closer until their knees were brushing together.

Steve's next inhale caught in his throat at the contact, and he had to remind himself that air was one of those necessities of life.

He stared with bare awe, catching himself when Mr. Stark let out a huff of a laugh, shoulders hunching as he began to lean forward. Slender fingers cupped the right of his mouth as if he were about to share a secret. Without thinking, Steve leaned towards him, like being pulled in by a massive force of gravity. Pleasant amusement swayed in the depths of Mr. Stark’s pupils. He reached his other hand forward and tapped a single melodic note under Steve’s chin.

“Mouth’s still open, soldier,” he said, voice soft like the rain coming down around them.

Steve felt heat clamber through his entire face as he closed his mouth with a resounding snap. Well, it resounded in his own skull; he wasn’t sure if it was a mortifying echo to anyone else’s ears.

The waitress came back over, giving Mr. Stark a bright smile. Turning from Steve, he took his hand away and leaned back. He grinned up at her. “Duo Caffe Ristretto,” he said with a perfect accent, lifting two fingers off the tabletop where the hand at his mouth had spread itself out. “Grazie.” Steve watched, entranced. His fingertips were stained an inky black that Ombréd as they dripped toward his palms instead of the clean nails painted with neat, deliberate strokes Steve remembered from months ago. If he looked close enough, he could make out the scraped off remnants that, to him, were akin to an archeologist's artifact.

Thoughts ran wild through Steve’s mind as his brain tried to catalogue one specific detail after another like a dying man trying to capture the minutes of his life as they flashed before his eyes. It was almost too much.

“You lost your glasses,” he blurted because his filter was failing at keeping guard over his mouth. He closed his eyes on his next exhale, sending up a quick prayer for the cement beneath to crack open a gaping maw and suck him under in disaster-like proportions. He doubted anything could be worse than what Bucky always referred to as his hopeless imitations of Rick Blaine (which he’d only seriously done once in an attempt to talk to one of the fellas he’d seen perusing the bar at one of the clubs they’d haunted before their deployment. It’d ended with one of the bathroom quickies Steve had enjoyed for the many months following his mom’s death, so it wasn’t like it _hadn’t_ worked, but Bucky, for the life of him, would not let it go. A dog with a frickin bone, that one).

Mr. Stark’s delicate chuckle had Steve blinking his eyes open. Beautiful, his mind lofted through the frontal fog clouding into it.

He scanned his eyes over Mr. Stark’s features. The man looked bone tired. There were dark circles under his wide, rounded eyes that looked as if they were a shade on the wrong side of deep bruising. His cheeks looked sharper, jawline defined by hard lines instead of the supple ones Steve liked to remember. His skin settled into the hollows of his skull beneath, and he looked, Steve noted, like he was about to start swaying in his chair.

All in all, he looked beat but was, without a doubt, the most divine thing Steve had ever borne witness to.

“They have this new thing called contacts. Maybe you’ve heard of them?” Mr. Stark said, voice airy with ill-contained laughter.

Clearing his throat, Steve tried to come out of his daze. He glanced down at his breakfast and remembered Mr. Stark’s comment. “Food,” Steve said, pushing the plate into the middle of the table. “You should, uh, please. Eat. Have some; it’s not- it’s not blueberry, but it’s actually pretty good.” He gestured towards the pastry and picked up his own fork in what he hoped came off as an encouraging gesture.

Mr. Stark waved a hand in front of him, eyes going a little wide. “I’m sorry, Captain Rogers; I couldn’t. I didn’t mean- I wasn’t asking-”

“I know,” Steve said, stopping him. His mind came to a brief pause to wonder at when he’d told Mr. Stark his rank but came up blank. Brushing it off at the man’s dubious look, he continued. “I was offering.” Reaching over, he grabbed the bundle of silverware next to Mr. Stark’s arm. “Here,” he murmured, pulling out the fork and setting it on the plate, handle facing the smaller man. “And please,” he said, settling back. “Steve.”

Blinking, Mr. Stark’s face was overcome with a slow smile, and Steve found himself floored by how this one seeped and flourished into every line of his face. It was a grin that lit him up brighter than the Empire State Building on New Year’s Eve, wiping away his exhaustion in a second. His eyes looked between Steve’s, searching his gaze for something Steve couldn’t begin to fathom, but there was intrigue in there. A curiosity that spurred Steve to try one more time, and maybe keep on trying again and again after that.

“Well, Steve,” Mr. Stark hummed, something tender, something akin to what Steve wanted to call wonder on the tip of Mr. Stark’s breath. He unraveled the rest of the black and white striped linen napkin, reaching over to dip it in Steve’s full water glass. Bringing it up to Steve’s chin, Mr. Stark gave a gentle swipe. “You have something right- there-.” He punctuated each word with another wipe.

Steve was too frozen in the moment to do much besides gape at Mr. Stark’s face. His eyes were dipped down in what would be a suggestive way had Steve not known better. A pink tongue folded itself between plump lips as if Mr. Stark were deep in concentration. As if Steve were worthy of such a thing.

When he did come back to himself, it was because the waitress was back, two small cups of plated espresso in her hand.

Mr. Stark leaned away and folded the napkin into a neat square, smoothing out the top with a gentle caress of his palm before reaching for the plate and setting it on the table with a soft clink. Steve watched his lanky fingers work over the material with the grace and poise he believed DaVinci used while painting the _Mona Lisa_. 

Thanking her, Mr. Stark wrapped one of the small cups in a tender grip and brought the steaming, smoothed liquid to his lips. Not sure what else to do with himself, Steve followed suit, grabbing for his water and taking large gulps, the cold liquid a shock as it slid down his esophagus and settled like a glacier into the pit of his stomach.

His mind raced to find something else to say. Anything that would keep the man here just a second longer.

“You, uh, you speak Italian?” he asked, clearing his throat while his very own mental parade berated him. They sounded an awful lot like Bucky, Sam, and Clint. Because _of course_ Mr. Stark spoke Italian, he thought. Otherwise, he would have fumbled through his order like Steve had. No. Mr. Stark’s words had come out like honey. A familiar and intimate flow.

For some reason, though, Mr. Stark didn’t laugh at Steve’s question. Didn’t look at him like Steve was an idiot, or like he didn’t want to be bothered by the scrawny kid from Brooklyn who couldn’t get two words straight in his own head let alone out of his mouth. When Mr. Stark looked back at Steve – that unflinching gaze locked onto his own – he didn’t look as if he thought Steve wasn't worth the time like so many before him had.

He looked _at_ Steve.

Mr. Stark nodded, eyes never leaving his. For a second, Steve thought that that was all he’d get, but then Mr. Stark blinked and seemed to shake himself. “Yes,” he said, voice rough around the edges. Picking up his espresso again, he stared into the light brown foam that had settled over the top. “I, um, yeah. My mother taught me.”

“She was Italian?” Steve asked.

Mr. Stark squinted at him, and Steve got the feeling that he was being studied, which seemed to be a habit of Mr. Stark’s if past experience was anything to go by. The brief thought that he’d already managed to do something wrong flashed across his mind, but before it got a chance to form into something with substance, Mr. Stark was speaking again.

“Yeah. She was born there before coming over here with Ho- with my dad after World War II.”

Steve nodded. “My ma was from Ireland,” he said, easing into the back of his chair and crossing his arms, trying to wrangle his tensed, battle-ready muscles into relaxation. “That’s how I always knew I was in real trouble,” he chuckled. “Her accent always snuck out whenever she lost her temper.”

Smiling, Mr. Stark hid his bottom lip with the espresso cup. “Can’t picture you as much of a trouble maker.”

“Ah,” Steve said, holding up a finger in front of him. “That’d be because you don’t know me yet. Trust me; I’m a man of many surprises.”

An eyebrow rose on Mr. Stark’s forehead, and the side of his mouth quirked. “Yet?” he asked in a cooled voice, looking down at his espresso shot and blowing on it before taking another dainty sip. His tone gave nothing away.

Steve felt his flush flare. He swore he’d never been God-awful at this type of thing in the past. Even before the growth spurt had kicked in.

“I–” he began, not sure what he could or would finish that up with. He released his arms and settled them on the arms of the chair, squeezing the ends in a relentless grip as he shifted in his seat, becoming aware in the most acute sense of the word of how uncomfortable the wooden seats were.

He was saved, though, as Mr. Stark’s eyes caught on the empty page of his sketchbook.

“Oh,” he breathed, a fluttering timber in his voice that sent a shiver down Steve’s spine. He set his cup down and stared at the page. “You’re drawing something?” And he sounded honest-to-God excited, like the thought of Steve’s art was something he could be interested in.

Steve’s chest filled with a burst of pride at that. “Trying to,” he said on a low laugh.

The switch was instantaneous. Mr. Stark’s features went from wide-eyed wonder to a blank, if not a little pinched, mask. “I’m sorry,” he blurted out, turning in his chair to grab his coat.

Steve blinked at the change, searching his mind to find the point of the crash. Find it and fix it. Because he didn’t want Mr. Stark to leave. Didn’t want to go back to his quiet meal and too loud thoughts. To waiting yet another month for a simple glance that no longer seemed like enough when the man who was consuming his every waking thought was right here in front of him.

Resolution filled his head. Steve was not going to lose this. He was not going to let another moment slip past him.

“Wait,” he said, furrowing his brow. He reached out and grabbed the hand still on the table, all too aware of the heat seeping into his palm.

Mr. Stark’s hands were smaller than his. Those long fingers couldn’t quite reach the tips of Steve’s own, and his palm encompassed Mr. Stark’s without issue. But it curved a perfect convex into the concave of Steve’s hand, and Steve got the wild, unbidden thought that if he slipped his fingers over just so, those slender digits would create a flawless fold into the crooks between his own.

Mr. Stark stopped, a suspended halt that crawled up his frame. He glanced down, eyes training on their hands but made no effort to pull away.

“I should go,” he said under his breath.

“Why?”

Depthless pools of swirling brown eyes popped up to Steve’s. Mr. Stark squinted, the look of confusion foreign on his features. “You’re busy,” he said as if this were obvious. “I interrupted, and I shouldn’t have assumed my welcome.”

“But you are,” Steve insisted because, well, he’d forgotten about the people on the sidewalks. Forgot to jump at every bulleting car horn. His leg had gone still as he focused his energy on being present here in this moment with Mr. Stark.

It was like when Steve first began drawing. He was forced to center his thoughts in the present and cement himself there. The looping soundtrack of tearful cries, bland sympathies, and teasing words faded to an infinitely small point.

In this place, Steve could breathe again; he could forgive his past long enough to notice that life still existed around him. That life, his life, was allowed to go on.

And in this juncture, for the first time since their elevator ride those many months ago, Steve thought again about the future, improbable as it was.

How could he so much as _imagine_ letting this lottery slip through his fingers?

In an instant of honesty, Steve dragged in a breath of the sharp air around them. He’d forgotten it was cold out.

Blinking down at his lap, hair curtaining his eyes, he went back to his mental note on getting his haircut. There was a Supercuts on the corner of his street. He’d have some free time this weekend to get it done, and the hairdressers were always so nice to him.

“You– this… the, uh, interruption,” he tried to get out, honing in and trying to decide whether or not he should call ahead or just walk into the salon like the decision were life or death because if he didn’t focus on that, if he didn’t give that his immediate, full-focused attention, he was worried he’d get all twisted up and chicken out on what he wanted to say. Or worse: say the wrong thing. “It helps… I- my head gets,” he said, releasing the chair to circle his other hand, curling his fingers in on themselves like claws, around his ear, “loud. Sometimes, it’s nice to let it pause. Anytime, really…” he admitted, gaze trained on his lap.

The rain fell harder against the umbrella. He could hear almost nothing else as the silence between them grew. With halting, jerky motions, Steve began to lift his palm, dragging himself away from the warmth he had forgotten other people emanated. Tan fingers wrapped around his wrist and stopped the stealing cold in its tracks.

Steve flicked his eyes up. Mr. Stark still stared at their hands with an intensity something as simple as this didn’t deserve.

“I get it,” he said, voice pitched so low, his words were almost lost to the storm around them. He looked up at Steve from beneath lashes dark as twilight and long enough to be Sin itself, his mouth wavering into a wobbling smile.

_ He’s much too young for such haunted eyes, _ Steve thought.

His eyes darted to Mr. Stark’s chest in a brief detour. Mr. Stark shifted at Steve’s dip, his hand disentangling from Steve’s to rub at the topography layered above his sternum. The nervous twitch didn’t match Steve’s image of Tony Stark; the man who wore his clothes like a peak behind the curtain.

Mr. Stark’s eyes searched the ground for nothing in particular, a petite cough rushing into the surrounding air.

“It gets better,” Steve said for lack of anything else, because it did. He couldn’t say when it’d be okay because he was just starting to feel that way himself. But he knew now; it did get better.

He watched Mr. Stark’s expression become embittered, lips dropping into a moue. “Does it?” he whispered, fingers digging into his chest before they were torn away with stilted movements to settle back on the table.

Steve shrugged, a pang of worry lacing through him like a tainted wine. “My ma always said life could only be understood lookin’ back but could only be lived movin’ forward. I always thought you a futurist, Mr. Stark,” he said, compelling his tone to be something lighthearted, something careless and free, wanting to give anything to eradicate that look from the other man’s face. Steve knew the kinds of thoughts that lurked behind looks like that. He’d seen it in the mirror; in fellow soldiers’ gazes when too much became _too much_.

A surprised puff jumped out of Mr. Stark, and Steve settled as Mr. Stark looked up at him with large, doe-ful eyes. “She sounds like a wise woman.”

“Yeah,” Steve smiled. “She was.” Pushing himself toward the table, he took his fork and dug another bite out of the pastry. “Plus,” he began, swallowing the mouthful and pointing his fork towards Mr. Stark. “Aren’t you currently working in Switzerland with The Large Hadron Collider? Studying the, um…” He paused, setting down the utensil then snapping his fingers. “Quantum particles, the Higgs Boson Field, and the Higgs Boson Particle.” He tilted his head, drawing his brow together. “Right?”

Mr. Stark narrowed his eyes at him, a wrinkle forming at the top of his nose. Steve stopped himself from reaching forward and running his thumb over the softened skin. But oh… how he wanted.

“Well,” Mr. Stark said, drawing out the word like it was a question. “Yeah, um, yes? We’ve been, well, we’ve been trying to get more accurate images of fundamental, or quantum, particles, see? It’s difficult because light  _ is _ a fundamental particle itself, so it’s not like we can actually  _ see  _ these particles without messing with them in some way. We can’t get an accurate picture of what they are because in order to see them, we have to change them, which makes things pretty difficult.

“But if we can figure out what these particles are - vibration or loop or whatever - why they pop in and out of existence, or-or!” Mr. Stark said, hand gesturing out towards Steve, “why they can exist in two states simultaneously or even why some interact with the Higgs Boson Field and some don’t, if we figure that out, we can do things like figure out what the environment of a black-hole’s singularity might be like.

“We could even figure out how to manipulate the very vacuum of space in order to create exotic matter, which would create a negative mass that would _repel_ gravity,” he emphasized, leaning forward while he brought his hands around to curl at the edge of the table, “so we could rip a hole in the very fabric of space and keep gravity from crimping it shut, which is the issue with Einstein Rosen Bridges. It’d take an infinite amount of time to reach the center, and, honestly, I don’t see anyone living through that, so…” he trailed off, face going an endearing shade of pink Steve didn’t know Mr. Stark was capable of as his eyes blinked a fraction wider.

Clearing his throat, Mr. Stark released his hold on the table and ran a hand through his hair, bowing away from Steve. “I, um, anyway. That’s, uh, that’s not… no one ever pays attention to that stuff. They don’t care,” he said, canting his head, watching Steve with a wary gaze.

“I do.”

“Why?” Mr. Stark asked, shaking his head, eyes pinched.

“Uh,” and he couldn’t very well say he’d been near stalking the man, reading almost any bit of information he could get his hands on since he was in junior high. Of course, he came to the brilliant realization later on that most of these articles were overflowing with click-bated titles and one-line insults intent on selling magazines and papers rather than painting an accurate picture of the man in front of him. So he was far from an expert on all things Tony Stark, which was a relief. Steve wanted to be able to get to know the real man, not the person some media outlet decided he was like a flavor of the day at an ice cream parlor.

However, that didn’t exactly leave a whole lot of reading left for Steve.

“I mean,” Mr. Stark said. “There are _plenty_ of articles out there on me, trust me when I say. You don’t–” a small titter bubbled out, amber eyes shining as they roamed over Steve’s face “–you went right for the boring ones.”

Steve frowned, picking up his fork again and using it to push the pastry closer to Mr. Stark with clear intention. Mr. Stark rolled his eyes but whorled his fingers around his fork anyway to pry apart a small piece.

“How can they be boring? I’m not nowhere near as smart as you or those other scientists, but how can something that you seem so passionate about possibly be boring?

“Also,” Steve said, voice going low as he smirked down at the man, “I like those _ones_.

“The other stories are just that. Stories. None of them are you.” He shrugged as he rested back against the chair. He looked at his fork as he picked apart another piece of tart and tried his damndest to seem more interested in the food than the intent gaze he could feel trying its hand at picking him apart. Steve let silence fill the air around them, and he switched fork for pencil to make the odd mark on his paper for lack of anything better to do.

“What’cha drawing?” Mr. Stark spoke up after a quiet had blanketed around them.

Steve sat up straighter, dropping the pencil to rub the back of his neck. His heart picked up a beat as he eyed the book. Image after image of familiar round eyes and a lithe figure and plump lips and a sharp goatee flipped through his mind, not all of them an innocent sketch.

He was many things, but even Steve could own that subtle was not one of them. A girlish giggle and knife-sharp red lips cut through his mind, and he pushed them away with a rush of fondness. Bringing himself back to Mr. Stark, Steve let a sheepish grin denote his features.

“Nothing much right now. But I usually go for the buildings around New York that catch my eye. Sometimes a piece of nature.” He bit his lip, slumping his shoulders and sinking his hands to rub together beneath the table. “You know, whatever finds my interest at the time.”

“Ever think of ditching the Empire State Building and Central Park to work with a live model?” Mr. Stark asked, bursting into a goofy grin as he tried and failed to waggle his eyebrows. Steve supposed it was supposed to look seductive, like the sultry women he’d seen in the  _ James Bond _ films.

The idea of Tony Stark modelling for Steve, being at his every disposal, every whim, was about the sexiest thing Steve could imagine. That grin, though, had the added benefit of being ridiculous. And the radiation of celestial refinement. He found himself in a bout of side-cramping laughter.

Steve couldn’t tell if it was really all that funny or not, but a sweep of joy, pure and untainted, burgeoned through him. God. When was the last time he’d felt this weightless? Like a man on the goddamn moon!

“Are you offering?” he teased when his laughter died down, and he caught his breath.

Mr. Stark gave a mocking balk, fluttering his eyelashes and covering his heart with his hand. “Why Captain,” he said, voice lofting on his breath, and Steve tried very hard to ignore the rush of heat that raced down his spine. It was a thought that would not be leaving him anytime soon. “What kind of fella do you take me for?”

“Oh?” Steve raised a brow and crossed his arms once more. “No way I can make it worth your while?”

“Oh, there are many ways,” Mr. Stark said, the inflection of a purr on the tip of his tongue. He veered his body to rest an elbow on the table, laying his chin in the heel of his hand. His fingers tapped across his bottom lip as he looked at Steve through hooded eyes. Steve’s grin was so big, he could feel the ache in his jaw. Mr. Stark’s lips pulled up as he dipped away with a smooth shrug. “Don’t think you could afford someone like me, though.” He looked down to examine his fingernails as if pondering them, rubbing the pad of his thumb over them.

“Do you take credit cards?”

His eyes flickered up, mouth twitching a sliver but stayed steadfast in their flattened disinterest. “Steve,” he chastised, tsking. He pounced back to his nails, but Steve caught the shrewd side-eyeing. “Debt is no joking matter.”

“Well, it’s lucky I got this fancy new job to foot the bill.”

Mr. Stark looked back at him and grinned, and Steve knew his mouth was doing the exact same thing. He never wanted to leave.

But his fingers were beginning to feel tacky, and he had managed to gulp down all his water in the span of what might have amounted to be an impressive five minutes. Clearing his throat, Steve glanced across the table.

“Sorry, but, I, uh, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be right back,” he said. At Mr. Stark’s nod, he pushed his chair out and stood up. Steve sent Mr. Stark a soft smile and hoped he would take for what it was: an implorement to stay. Steve pulled up the hood of his sweatshirt and stuffed his hands in his front pockets; ducking out of the protective hood of the umbrella, he hopped through the rain and ran inside.

He looked back through the large format windows, almost walking into somebody as he watched Mr. Stark smile down at the table as he glazed the tips of his fingers over his lips in a seemingly unconscious motion.

As Steve washed his hands, he stared back at his reflection with unseeing eyes. His thoughts drifted to Mr. Stark, drawing a mental picture in his head. He traced over the outline of Mr. Stark’s body, sketching over his neck as it cascaded over slender shoulders, which – in turn – filled out lean biceps and a sinewy chest that Steve could enfold in his arms and let fill all the parts of him that were jagged and broken.

It seemed like it would be so easy to let this man fall into his life. To hold onto him and look after him. Guard him from a world that wanted to tear his rosy flesh with their thorny barbs.

Steve rubbed a wet hand over his stubbled jaw before running it through his greasy hair. He was such a mess. Charcoal and pencil lead smudged itself in the grooves of the pads of his scarred and calloused fingertips. There was a streak of grey at his temple, and his clothes were two days worn and looked it. Strings of his hair clumped together, and he was sure he smelt a strong whiff of grime and sweat.

But his project was due by noon today, and Bucky had wrangled Steve into helping him and Natasha move into their new apartment yesterday, and by the time their burgers and Coors were finished, he’d had no time left.

Still. Mr. Stark had stayed.

Stepping out of the restrooms, his eyes were drawn back to their table; it was an automatic ripple that had his stomach sinking. Steve scanned the crowds outside the Italian bistro for a mop of wild hair as he made his way back, but Mr. Stark was nowhere to be found.

Approaching the table, Steve’s eyes caught on a slip of white paper attempting a valiant escape from beneath the empty white plate in the middle of the black tabletop. He slipped it free and began to skim through messy scrawl like one would a book of worship.

_ Steve, _

_ I’m sorry to run off, but my new assistant called me with a problem, and I had to go. I just wanted you to know that I had a wonderful time with you today. _

_ Yours, _

_ Tony _

His breath caught, and Steve ran his fingers over the name.

_ Tony _ , he thought, unable to stop the smile spreading over his face.

“You should’ve asked for his number, you moron,” someone said from behind him. Steve blinked, turning around to find an old man leaning towards him, white hair wisping over his head and upper lip, a pair of sunglasses hanging off his nose. He could feel the man rolling his eyes at him as he turned back toward his table.

“Yeah,” Steve sighed, looking back into the crowd and chuckling low in his throat. He turned in the direction of Stark Tower, trailing his eyes up the tall building. “Tony,” he tested, humming the word over his tongue. He smiled. It tasted like cherries.

Steve gathered up his portfolio, setting his sketchbook snug inside. He eyed the receipt at the edge of the table with his food and two espresso shots already paid for, a slight frown tugging at his lips.  _ Next time _ , he thought as he shook his head and picked it up, folding it into a little fan and placing it in his hoodie’s pocket. With slow and gentle movements, he also folded up his note, sliding it into the protective folds of his sketchbook.

Slipping the strap over his shoulder, Steve started towards the tower, thirty minutes later than he’d first intended and unable to wipe the grin off his face. He hoped Bucky and Bruce would make it in today; he had quite the story to tell them come lunchtime.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all so much for reading! Please please please leave a comment and/or kudos it you enjoyed the fic; I love hearing your guys' thoughts and opinions. It motivates me too keep on keepin' on!
> 
> A big, big thank you to Stella Star, Musicalla, and Fundamental Blue for looking over this fic for me and giving me amazing advice and guidance!!
> 
> For those of you who'd like to listen, I've created a YouTube playlist that will accompany this series. Here's the link: https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLJsBhMpd7vOwaNGCWLx9CBPlV9ApSdPDK


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